


All Jagged Edges

by SuzumePaige



Category: Batman (Comics), Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Choking, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, they're both broken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 16:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18097643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuzumePaige/pseuds/SuzumePaige
Summary: Jason knows how to press buttons and Jack's got buttons to spare.





	All Jagged Edges

It had been a while since Jason Todd had worked so well with another person. The Outlaws were great but Roy liked to act rather than think and Jason liked to act rather than think and sometimes when everyone was acting, shit went sideways. Shit did not go sideways with Soldier: 76.

The two of them moved so well with one another that it was practically a dance. 

Jack had Jason's back and Jason had his, and it didn’t hurt that the fucker was built like a goddamn truck and seemed to be immune to stray bullets. They’d walked into that old Gotham warehouse like they owned it-- no stealth, no smoke-- and pushing that big door aside like they already had won only sealed the fates of every asshole in the place.

So when the fight was done and Jason's breath short behind his impassive hood, he looked at Soldier: 76 and for the first time in a while, remembered that this was what it was like to be alive. "Not bad,” he cooed. “Not bad.” His hands shook from the rush as they slid guns and ammo away. "I could get used to a shot like you."

Jack swept the old waterfront warehouse for errant signs of life through his HUD. “Well don’t, kid.” He brushed dust from his leather jacket and his gloves came away tacky black with grime and more dried gore than he would have liked. 

"Kid," Jason scoffed, almost pouty as he played up the annoyance.

Jack would have eyeballed him if they both didn’t have the same penchant for hiding their faces. Instead he turned to retrieve an empty biotics can. Nothing was free, anymore. "This ring is down; I'm gone. This isn't my town." He didn't have a town, honestly, Soldier: 76. Once upon a time Jack Morrison had been stationed in Washington D.C. and he'd considered the green of the tri-state area somewhere he'd eventually retire. Old Town, Virginia, probably. Back when he didn't know that his retirement would be spent pushing his old augmented bones all over hell and back on a crusade that sometimes even he himself had a hard time hanging a hat on.

Gotham had been a shithole before the Omnic Crisis, it was a shithole after the Omnic Crisis, but the point was that it wasn’t his shithole.

Jack slung the pulse rifle onto his back and stuck a finger into a bullet hole in his jacket. "Damnit," he muttered. Where there was one, there was always more. He looked at the kid in the helmet-- Red Hood. Kinda on the nose there. "I can't say I'm a fan of your..." 

He looked at the sprawl of bodies, some less clean than others, but all very dead. 

"Enthusiasm. But you get the job done." He didn’t kill innocents and these men hadn’t been. Still, it didn’t mean he hadn’t wished there was another way. 

If wishes were fishes, as the ape used to say.

"I more than get the job done, are you kidding?” Jason wasn't as bad as some-- he wouldn't piss on the carcasses of the men they took down or shoot anyone in front of their children-- but still, he didn't mind stepping on a fallen goon's hand hard enough to crack bones as he made his way towards his current fighting partner. “This," he said with a sweep of his hands out at the scene, "is a thing of beauty." 

Soldier: 76 was also a thing of beauty, so when Jason pushed into his personal space, he was picturing what it might be like to peel the layers back and see the supposed man beneath the armor of this warrior before him. "You hurt?" he asked, echoing the poke of a finger through the hole in leather. Unlike Jack, though, Jason wanted to see how deep it went and Jack grimaced as the finger pushed through skin and muscle waylaid by the metal jacket. Thanks to the mask, however, nothing showed. He pulled himself away from the happily-applied masochism and was reminded far too much of someone else who used to take a certain sort of zeal from the art of destruction. Jack had never made good choices when his emotions were involved and he didn't like that the Red Hood might earn emotion by association. 

"I'm wounded," he answered, nearly under his breath. "Hurt is relative." Everything was relative when you were a successful government experiment. 

"Right," Jason drew out, a little irked by the pull-back. Hadn't they been having a good time? Wasn't this guy as wound up as he was after the thrill of the fight? "Well, I have a medkit at a safehouse not far from here. Food, too, if you count cold, three-day-old pizza as food." He jerked his hood in the direction, then took one step back and another. The grin his mask hid didn’t need to be seen; it was felt. "Let me count your bullet holes and see if you're real under there."

"I don't need food," Jack said. 

Jason was doing a little come chase me back step but Jack simply walked past, leaving him stumbling to turn and keep up. It didn’t throw Jason off his game: he was pretty sure that he had Soldier: 76 figured out, despite this little hiccup. “Pain in the ass to stitch yourself up,” he countered as he fell into step.

Jack didn’t answer at first. He didn’t need help; his body could take care of itself— he had the government to thank for that. He kept walking as if refusing help would make him immune to the want of companionship, even as poor excuse for it as the Red Hood was. As if it would make his mind as ready to charge ahead as his body, never stopping, needing only the basics of survival. 

Still. Jack did hate digging bullets out of his own skin. He glanced over at the kid as they walked, as if it hadn’t been predetermined that they were both going in the same direction. "Bet your safehouse is a real piece of shit," he said. It almost sounded like a joke.

Jason whistled, enjoying the slow tug of this dance in his gut. “Well, you won’t be disappointed.” Over the past few months, Jason had completely distanced himself from the Bats-- too much drama, too much of everything actually-- and finding a new connection in the most unlikely of places was definitely thrilling.

Jason led, and Jack followed.

The safehouse, true to Jason's word, was not disappointing in its sheer piece-of-shit-ness. The building had once housed a McDonald's, then a Taco Bell, and finally a Lebanese place that gave everyone the shits. Now it had a bed in what used to be the kitchen, guns in locked cases, and crates of ammo and drugs he'd been trading to get some leverage in the city. Jack didn’t even need to turn his head to take in the dubiousness of their surroundings; his HUD did that for him. Hotspots flickered in his periphery, warning him to possible contaminants. He grimaced, pulling off his gloves and tucking them into a back pocket. The bathroom was just as it had been at the Lebanese place, except the door was missing and the water only worked a quarter of the time. Jason swatted at the light switch and a naked bulb flickered to life. From under a cabinet, he pulled out a backpack. "So. Do I have to dress your wounds with all those layers on? Or are you gonna be a good boy and peel a few off for me?"

The pulse rifle was leaned just outside the bathroom’s open doorway and Jack stepped under the dim light, ignoring the chipped tiles and missing toilet tank lid. "You got a daddy kink, kid? Or you just always talk like that?" That he hated that sort of banter now must have been due to his general misalignment with himself that made up the majority of his waking days; after all he’d certainly been fine with it back in the day, sitting in some barracks somewhere and using just the same damn tricks to get Gabe to crack open and except a helping hand. Jason just made him aware of how he was chasing ghosts.

How he was becoming one, too.

"Wow, just bring up the daddy kink straight away, huh?" Jason asked as Jack peeled away the leather and cotton. He left his hood, as did Jason since it would aid him in his ability to dig the bullet out, the tech allowing him to see what his own eyes could not. He stayed crouched as he gathered the necessary packets-- each one in sterilized plastic, shrinkwrapped, fresh. He might like to live like a pig but he didn't particularly enjoy infections. Jason looked up at Jack and chuckled. "Anyway, you're like 500 years old than me, right? So how does me calling you a good boy count as a daddy kink?" Still, as Jason watched the layers come off he marveled at the smooth muscle, the light hair decorating the lower part of the man’s abs. God, he wanted to fucking lick him. 

If Jack had bothered to remove his own mask as he’d peeled away his leather jacket and t shirt he would have narrowed his eyes at the stupidity of the comment. As it was, he was able to ignore it completely.

There were no open wounds on Jack's naked shoulder despite the bullet holes that had been in his clothes, just two pockmarks of flesh looking far too recent and tender. Or not recent enough, depending on the information one had on the biology of SEP soldiers. "Hope you're as good with a knife as you are a gun." He grunted. "Gotta cut it back open and pull the slugs out. Won't bleed much, though."

"Lucky for you, I'm even better with a knife," Jason said, gesturing for Jack to walk closer so he could paw at the wound and see what he was dealing with. The flesh was sealed, fresh-- ugly, like it would scar, and yet there wasn't another scar on the man’s body. 

"Five hundred?" Jack grumbled, half annoyed, half amused, as he lowered himself onto the closed toilet seat. The amusement was just as likely the culprit as the annoyance for the reason why he, instead of biting his tongue and not being an asshole, did just the opposite. He just followed a crack in the wall with his visor and called up structural building reports on the shithole in which he was sitting as he went there. "Way I hear it, you're a little younger than you look anyway, being that you don't age in the grave."

Jason had just removed his gloves and was in the process of cleaning his hands with medical-grade sanitizer when Jack said that. The color drained from him, and there was a hesitation before he set down a clean cloth and ripped a scalpel package open, then one for tweezers, and lay the tools out. He was so goddamn thankful for the coverage the hood provided, even though he sort of thought Soldier: 76 might be able to see through it with that fucking visor shit. Which was not fair at fucking all.

Luckily for him, Jack had stopped reading people. He’d made a living out of it once, providing not only generalized assumptive intelligence that usually was outed as truth, but emotional support when it was needed. It was the first that had gotten him the title of Strike-Commander, but it had been the second that had let him keep it. Now he was the only one that he worried about. He was good at putting his head down, moving forward at all costs, creating ripples instead of analyzing them. 

He didn’t bother to turn his visor on the other now, hadn't tried to hack the hood itself even when they’d first met. This wasn’t his goddamn town.

Jason put a hand on Jack's abdomen to brace himself and took a little satisfaction slicing the man open and watching the wound bulge apart. There was a grunt from Jack, small but palpable; of course he still felt pain, but the trick of his scientifically-superior body was the immediate compensation it provided-- an dopamine and adrenaline cocktail that had long ago remapped and trained his neural pathways. Nothing like a little pain to get you fired up, was there? When times were dire it was so much easier to beg forgiveness than ask for permission. "So it's the truth, then," he said through his teeth. Times had never stopped being dire. "You died and came back. How the hell did you manage that?" Not even a super-soldier could manage resurrection. 

"Who the fuck knows anymore," Jason said, his voice somewhat dulled compared to the bravado it usually carried. Once he had the skin sliced how he wanted it, he set the bloody scalpel down and took the tweezers. "People told me it was a supernatural thing. This kid, Superboy, punching a hole in space-time or some shit." He slid the tweezers in, raking over Jack's insides until he found the bullet's head. "I just know I was dead and then I woke up in my coffin and definitely wasn't dead anymore."

He watched the blood slither out of Jack. Sometimes, it was good to see men like him bleed.

Jack agreed.

"Christ I don’t miss dealing with Metas," he muttered through a tight throat as he braced his hand on the wall while Jason worked; the bullet finally slid free with sick, squelched noise. Jack exhaled when the pressure of the pull was gone and a metal sound from the trash can rattled it was over. There was no sweat on his brow. "Waking up in a coffin doesn't sound like a barrel of laughs."

Jason scoffed. "You think?" It wasn't a subject he particularly liked to discuss. It left him at a heavy disadvantage, emotionally. He could hide his reactions about every other subject, but discussing his death and rebirth and the Pit and Bruce always managed to knock him down and stick his voice in his throat in ways he absolutely despised.

Fucking weak was what it was. He wasn't still some kid clawing out of his grave. He was the fucking Red Hood. "Anyway, aren't you practically a Meta?" Superhuman, that was for damn sure. Jason held up needle and thread only to have Jack wave it away— proving his point, by the way. 

"Just do the other one,” Jack said. "Before you're done with your oh-so-tender mercies, that'll be on it's way to healing." He looked at the wall again, bracing himself slightly for the return of the pain. 

"Glutton for it?" Jason cooed, though he couldn’t be sure Jack really felt anything. People tended to show pain in their face. He went back to the scalpel to slice into the other lump of half-healed flesh to split it open again. This particular bullet was going to require more digging.

To distract from the sensations, from the kid and the stupid questions, Jack cleared his throat. "Anyway, I don't know your definition a Meta, but I don’t think practically counts for a lot." 

Jason didn’t spare a look from his work and maybe it was only Jack’s imagination that the next few jabs were particularly uncaring and Jack grimaced below his mask, letting out a held breath slowly. Imagined or not he didn’t need the sadism to know what he was, damn all the definitions: a Meta. A Meta cleared for duty by a legitimate government mandate that had created him, and so while the rest of the world got put on a list, he got carte blanche. 

"I was going to say that getting sewn up was worse than taking the bullet out," he said, clenched teeth behind the mask making the words a mutter, "but then I didn't think you'd be trying to pull out my goddamn insides." Jack's body kept him from any resulting physical fallout but the ongoing chemicals for the prolonged dig for the shrapnel had his chest moving with steady, increased breath and he had finally gotten flushed. The second wound was slower to clot than the first. 

When Jason was finished with him, he gave Jack's tensed abs a pat as the scalpel was put up. Jack sagged, trying to hold onto his visceral reactions-- things that made far less sense when you were just a man alone in a confined space with another human being instead of a soldier on a field with enemies to shoot at. Jason grinned. "There you go, sweetheart. All done." His bloody fingers lingered, sliding along that thin strip of hair that disappeared into pants. "Anything else I can tend to?" he asked, remaining on his knees to look up.

Even that small connection was too much stimulation when Jack needed a straight head. He moved fast, too fast for even Jason’s training to anticipate, grabbing the offending hand by the wrist and yanking it to pin it to the wall within reach of Jack's seat on the toilet. "I recommend cutting that out," he said, the words low through the mask. There were so many variables of the Soldier Program; they’d been trained for the battlefield, not for life, and it wouldn’t have been inaccurate to say that none of them thought they’d live long enough to regret that.

Jason should probably be glad they'd gotten along well enough not to shoot or fight one another because Jack would make a damn good enemy, if he wanted to be one. Bruce would have loved to get Jack under a microscope probably, see if he could crack the code to best him. But Jason. He was just existing there, heart in his throat as his lungs practically went on strike for a full minute. The adrenaline rushed through him and a chuckle spilled out, breathless and rough beneath the hood.

"Such a boy scout," he murmured, flexing his fingers to see just how tight Jack's hold was. "Don't even tell me all that blood doesn't rev your engines."

It was such a goddamn Gabe thing to say that Jack's grip stuttered for a moment and then his other hand was there, compensating. Jason's neck was grabbed, just under the hood. He felt the stutter of the pulse that was both action and reaction. One snap was all it would take. Jason didn’t know the soldier well enough to know if he’d do it or not, not really. 

And god that was good, to be alone with a boyscout who had twisted morals. Jack was so unlike Dick or Clark in that moment, so outside of Jason's usual realm of Bad Ideas. 

And honestly, that was what he was looking for.

Jack was leaning forward now that both hands were involved, his knees almost touching the ground along with Jason's. "You don't understand what you're dealing with," he snarled, because his engines were revved in ways that made his brain sputter and feed into bad ideas. "You're just someone who likes to pull the legs off insects."

"That… sure doesn't sound like a no," Jason roughed out, his dick already half-hard from lack of oxygen and the rush of being bested.

For a moment there was just the quick breath of them both and a low growl that was Jack's response to the statement. "Take off that ridiculous helmet." He let go of Jason's arm but not his neck. "Now." He’d had too many years to find out that knowing that your brain chemistry was off was never the key to curbing it. He used to have breathing exercises. He used to have a war. He used to have people who told him no.

"Yes sir," Jason managed to get out. With both hands free, he could release the catch on the helmet to loosen the structure at jaw and chin. It made a hiss as air escaped-- like a goddamn astronaut's helmet, Jack thought-- and then it was being pulled free and tossed aside with a dull thud as it fell to the floor. 

The face that emerged was young, a little red from lack of air, hair curled with sweat at his ears and forehead, and his eyes a bright, cornflower blue that was a contrast to the sharp white teeth in his grin. God, Jason was... not a kid, not as frivolous as he wanted to believe, not with those eyes. But the grin and sharp tang of sweat and salt to feed it and Jack-- 

Jack was hungry for the first time in a long time. 

He slid from the toilet lid and stood, letting go of Jason's neck in order to open the fly on his pants and pull his cock free of the zip. His pubic hair was the same blond-gone-old as the hair on his head and stomach, and he stroked at himself once roughly, impatient, before smacking Jason's cheek with the fat head. Jason’s nostrils flared. Jack was only starting to get hard but only starting to get hard was Jason's specialty. He had a knack for winding men up to this point and barely beyond before he got too impatient not to slop it into his mouth to harden it the rest of the way. He liked it, feeling thick flesh twitch and get firm on his tongue, swallowing it down until his throat was trained to accommodate the girth. 

"This what you want, then?" Jack asked, the question something slightly less grim than a bark. Maybe he wasn’t expecting compliance but Jason’s only answer was to lean in and suck a wet, firm line with his mouth along the underside of Jack’s cock from base to tip. At the end of the length he looked up at Jack and chuckled before making a messy slurp to take him in.

Jack closed his eyes at the first touch of wet heat. He didn’t give a shit how impersonal the act might be with his own mask still on, he wanted it impersonal. He groaned as he was swallowed and carded callused fingers through Jason's damp hair in order to tug him closer. Jack needed hard contact, the impact of being productive as his veins cycled all the chemicals his brain was dumping out. Careful was making sure that he didn't literally break Jason's skull fucking his mouth back against the wall, but that was about it. 

As his head knocked back against the wall, Jason let out a guttural groan, saliva seeping out of his tight lips and his eyes watering without his permission. He couldn't help gagging-- he wasn't fucking prepared, and you should warn a guy before shoving their head down on your fucking massive dick-- but Jason couldn't complain. The jump of his stomach was a godsend of feeling. His fingers found Jack's muscles, counting them as he dragged his hands over the perfect skin and then down again, to curl in his goddamn pubic hair and give it a yank just because he could. 

Jack just rode Jason's mouth, rougher as his cock hardened completely and took up all the space that it could in that wet, tight channel. His fist held Jason's head back and his chin up so that the pale column was a open line that Jack could use as he pleased. For Jason, it had been a long fucking time since anyone had manhandled him, and it reminded him of Bruce in the most selfish ways. Bruce's hands could be this cruel, this insatiable, this desperate.

There was no consideration, hardly even thought to make sure to let Jason breathe. Jack was a machine in the way he fucked in and out of Jason's mouth, and all Jason could contribute was a gag here or the scrape of teeth there, and he sucked in air whenever he could. Jack filled his mouth and throat with even thrusts as his breath came shorter and stuck condensation to his face behind his mask.

God.

And still Jack leaned in closer, bringing a knee against Jason's shoulder, another point of contact to hold him down against the wall as Jason’s body lurched, vomit threatening to come up the deeper Jack went, and yeah maybe he’d misjudged Jack Morrison. Maybe he wasn't a boy scout after all.

Somebody had jokingly said of Jack Morrison all those years ago: don't poke the bear. It still held true. He'd regret his actions in the morning, when he was alone, as he did with so many other things. 

Wrapping a hand around the base of Jason's chin, he dug a thumb and index finger into the joints of the young man's jaw to fix it firmly open. If he knew how much it would hurt-- and he did-- he didn't seem to care. It opened Jason just that much wider and while Jason was sure there was a point at which Jack would stop, that point came and went quickly. Before long, Jason really couldn't breathe. His body spasmed, his own cock somehow harder than it had ever been for the rush of deja vu in the moment.

How often had he done this exact thing to Dick? How often had Bruce done it to him? Did it always feel so goddamn good? For all of them? To just… let consciousness trickle away and let his body heave and convulse in desperate need for air. It was an awful way to die, but Jason had been harboring a theory for a long time that nothing could kill him, and so wouldn't it be hilarious if it was death by blowjob? He hoped Dick would write it on his tombstone for kicks. 

Maybe they'd think better this time and burn him to ashes so there was no chance he'd come back.

A grunt and a slight tense of abs and buttocks were the only sign that something had changed before Jack unloaded himself down an already precarious throat. The hot pulse of it made Jason splutter and shake. Spit, come, and god only knew what else slithered out between his lips along with obscene noises, cheeks blown up with air, let out, blown up again, his hands not even bothering to put up a fight as they slid over Jack's balls and then down to his side.

It was a knife's edge, the thin whisper of Jason's breathing patterns and rush-ebb-ebb of an oxygen-deprived heart under the forward thunder of Jack's own. He could feel the choke of it against the sensitive head of his cock and there was one last feeble dredge of jizz. Baser instincts told him to keep ahold of Jason's jaw so that he was forced to swallow everything but the orgasm had curbed the worst of those dark impulses. His fingers twitched and then Jack stepped away. 

Jason coughed, the world coming back in pulses of light as he swallowed and gagged both somehow at once. He was crying, he realized belatedly, which was kind of epic amounts of embarrassing, but to deter, he laughed. He could blame tears on gagging-- the body's wonderfully natural reaction to being choked. His walls scrabbled to rebuild as he looked up at Jack, then back at his still huge dick, and laughed some more.

"Jesus," he croaked, coughed. "Been a while?"

Yes, but Jack didn't say so. "Meta," he muttered instead, making the single word almost a dirty joke between them even though everything was well past joking. He held onto his own two feet even though all he wanted to do was sleep, suddenly. "I'm hardwired differently." He grabbed for his shirt, shuffling into it as Jason sucked in heavy, wet breaths and leaned back against the wall, slumping a little. "Next time do as I say." Things could be avoided, though he had a feeling that a fact like that was inconsequential to someone like Jason Todd.

"Do as you say. Kinky." Jason rolled his jaw, wiped his eyes and mouth, and swallowed a few times to get his throat working properly again. If he hadn't been wearing a goddamn cup, his pants would have a stain on them from pre, and it had been years since that happened. Since before he died, definitely. "Shit,” he said, his eyes finally coming back into focus. He coughed and pushed his way to his feet. “You're not done, are you? You're still hard as a fucking rock." He reached out for it, pinching the head.

There were times Jack hated the visor-- this was one of them, when this blockhead in front of him couldn't read his face and so kept baiting him... especially at a time when Jack knew that he could be baited. His teeth bared as fingers pinched at him and the sensitive flesh responded with a sizzle of nerves that made him step forward. "Easy, big guy," Jason cooed, but there was a laugh in it, amusement that it was so damn easy make the man charge him at will. He actually felt the goosebumps crawl up his spine as Jack crowded him against the wall again. 

Jack wished he hadn't asked to see how goddamn human Jason was, because he was broken in ways that forced Jack to look in a mirror. It made everything harder. "Hardwired. Differently." He bit out the words again, like repeating them for a child.

Against better judgment and warnings, Jason rubbed his thumb over the slick tip of Jack's dick and began to dig his fingernail against the slit. "I can take it. You saw what just happened. Imagine putting that thing in my ass. How wide you'd fucking spread me. Or… what, you like it the other way? I'm fine being top and letting out some aggression on your differently-hardwired hole." He leaned up, and now he knew what it must feel like to be Dick, always shorter than everyone else. "Come on. I'm just asking for it."

If Jason was asking for it, then he wouldn't mind Jack grabbing that goddamn offending wrist again and yanking it toward an angle that was not conducive for wrists to function at. Jason arched and twisted to ease the pressure. Jack was so goddamn fast, and fuck, he didn't need a shattered wrist. Especially not his masturbation hand. "You really are asking for it," Jack agreed in a deep growl. "And I'm starting to wonder what's wrong with you-- if it's all related to digging your way out of your own grave."

"What if-- nng, what if all that's wrong is that I like it rough? This isn't my first rodeo, old man." He continued to wince. Shit. Jack was seriously going to snap his bone in two if he twisted any further. "Sue me for thinking we could help one another."

Jack let go of Jason's wrist and reached up, unhooking the side of his mask, peeling its component pieces away from face and neck. He let it dangle in his hand. Without the tactical visor he couldn’t see, though his other senses were good enough that the milky orbs never tracked like a blind man's. The worst of the scars he owned-- and the only ones his body had managed to keep since becoming SEP-- were here. It wasn’t the face in the history books and on the statues any longer.

Dying did crazy shit to people. Jack Morrison knew it just as well as Jason Todd.

Jason didn't feel pity, exactly. He felt a stupid kinship he knew he'd better rethink before it got him in trouble. And he lifted a hand to trace over Jack's mouth, his worn lips. In the end, Jason was lucky, he supposed. His own body was a disgusting patchwork showcase of his last moments, but his face, somehow that had come out mostly unscathed after the Pit brought him back. Sure, he had some scars and tight skin, but it was nothing like Jack.

"Am I that bad looking that you don't wanna see me anymore?" he asked, the words a rough-raw purr as he leaned up and licked the corner of Jack's mouth.

The touch of tongue was met with lowered lashes and a rough exhale. "Curious if you'd be so cavalier to a human instead of a mask," he muttered. "Guess I know the answer. And if you're goading me into killing you because you're that much of an idiot, if it’s all the same I'd rather not be the guy to do it." His voice had been unmodulated by the mask: even now it was just as deep, just as much of a rasp. The explosion that had taken his sight and his charm hadn't left his throat unscathed, either. 

"The fuck do I care about scars and death," Jason said, scoffing as he inhaled the more natural scent of Jack. Like this, he was actually better looking somehow. A realness to him that Jason wished he could unsee, just because he knew he'd never forget it.

Guys like Jack Morrison were his fucking Kryptonite.

"Also, so sweet that you care. No, I'm just here for a good time. It doesn't have to be any more complicated than the fact that I can take what you can give."

Jack snorted, the sound dismissive to the point of ruthlessness. "But you can’t; that’s the entire point. You're just another squishy." Turning around, Jack shoved his still-hard cock into his pants and grabbed his jacket off the floor. 

"Another... what?" Jason coughed. What the hell did that even fucking mean and how was it one fucking blowjob where he nearly blacked out had brought them here? Jack clearly wasn’t going to bother to answer-- pulse rifle over his shoulder he was already halfway to the door. Jason wasn't going to run after the asshole and beg for sex, even though common goddamn courtesy dictated Jack should at least reciprocate. 

The door fell closed. With a few choice curses into the silence left behind, Jason knelt to clean up. He didn't mind mess, but bloody scalpels were another thing entirely.

**Author's Note:**

> A little weird mash-up that I did as an RP with a friend and took a particular liking to-- turned it into an exercise about trying to weave a comprehensive omniscient narrative out of a piece originally made by authored POVs.


End file.
